Hugo de Rainault speared pork from the large serving platter with his knife and transfered it to his own platter with not a small amount of satisfaction. Ranged around him was not only the serving platter of pork, but a dish of stewed eels from the Abbey's fishpond, a platter of fresh-baked bread and some cheese, and a bowl of strawberries from the Abbey's kitchen-garden. A jug of malmsey completed the small feast.
Where he sat at the small table in his private chamber, Hugo regarded that small feast. The evening meal. He considered his work for the day mostly done, and now he could relax in privacy. It was a time of contemplation, of peace-
The heavy oak door creaked open and Brother Anselm entered, bowing his head respectfully.
Hugo managed to retain his patience. "What NOW?" he demanded, pouring himself wine.
"My lord Abbot," Brother Anselm began.
Hugo glanced up briefly from appreciating the food on his platter. "Well? What is it?"
"There is a stranger come to St Marys, my lord. He asks for an audience with you. As it grows towards evening, I thought perhaps before you retire for the evening you might grant-"
"I'm busy," Hugo said peevishly, tearing into the warm new-baked bread and delighting in the delicious smell that evaporated upwards towards his nose.
"He said he had come a long way, my lord," Anselm persisted respectfully. "He says he knows you."
Hugo glared at the monk. "A lot of people know me, Brother Anselm. That doesn't necessarily mean that I know THEM. What does he want to see me for, anyway?"
"He did not say. As for he seeing you....I regret, that is impossible, for he is blind."
Hugo's fingers paused in tearing the fresh new bread. "Blind?"
Anselm respectfully nodded. "Yes. He guides himself with his ears and a stick."
"He came alone to St Marys?" Hugo questioned.
"Yes," Anselm replied. "Arrived alone at our gates a short while ago."
Hugo's heart thudded. "Describe him, Brother Anselm."
"Young....not more than five and twenty, I would say. Tall, slim and straight of stature. His clothes are travel-stained and have no adornment to them, but are made of cloth of good quality."
"No blind beggar, then...." Hugo said, scowling at his goblet of wine.
"He mentioned to me as I guided him from the gate to the cloisters to wait, that he was a master cook by trade," Anselm replied.
"A master cook? A blind man, a master cook? A likely story." Hugo scowled down at his platter, not wishing to believe the suspicions creeping into his mind. "Describe him further, Brother Anselm," he said slowly at last.
"Tanned skin - as though he comes from abroad, but he speaks as though he comes from this area of the country," Brother Anselm elaborated. "Dark hair with some wave in it - and brown eyes."
A great foreboding filled Hugo, but he pushed it down into his innards. "All right, Brother Anselm, I'll see him. Now, whilst I sup. Fetch him."
Brother Anselm nodded and gracefully retired from the chamber.
Alone once more, Hugo stared down at his platter of food, finding he no longer had an appetite.
If this was who he thought it was....
"Curse you, Robert de Rainault!" Hugo muttered furiously to his absent brother. "Why do you have to be away from Nottingham when something happens like this! I told you something like this could happen, didn't I! I've always told you the past would catch up with us - and now it seems it has!"
He reached for his goblet and took a long draught from it as though needing courage.
Out in the stone passageway, Brother Anselm turned and walked down it, down a curving stone staircase, through a narrow doorway and to the cloister where the young stranger was.
Anselm had thought that the blind young stranger would have been gladly resting on the cloister seat. He had been told that it was there and had been invited to take a seat. However, the young stranger was not seated. Instead he was standing by one of the cloister windows which overlooked the inner courtyard - and seeming for all the world that he was actually looking out of it. Anselm felt surprised. The young stranger's long stick with which he used to guide himself was in one hand; with the other he was tracing over an area of the stone window sill. The fingertips seemed to be idly exploring....or perhaps remembering. He didn't appear to notice Anselm's approach.
Drawing nearer along the cloister, Anselm studied the young stranger curiously. He was dressed plainly but well, as Anselm had described to the Abbot. A shirt, an under-tunic, a sleeveless over-tunic and trousers - all in subdued colours of greens and browns. The clothes were dusty from travel in this hot weather, but were well cut - Anselm's father had been a tailor and he could tell. No ordinary blind beggar, as the Abbot had said.... A leather pouch hung from his belt, also a knife in a sheath. The handle of the knife was plain, but - like the young man's clothes - clearly of quality. The sheath was of leather, and was intricately embossed with a pattern; beautiful in a way that the blind young man could appreciate.
Anselm's gaze travelled to the guiding stick the young man held in one hand. It was long, in order to feel the way ahead for the young traveller, and when drawn up against him as it was now, it came up to the top of his chest. It was, as far as Anselm could tell, of ebony, and topped with a silver knob. No ordinary blind beggar - and no ordinary blind man's stick, either. Anselm tried to restrain his curiosity, for it was not meet.
He moved to stand before the young man and surveyed the face that was still turned in the direction of the unglazed window. The young man wore no hood or hat, and his face could be clearly seen. It was not an unhandsome face, with a straight nose, and a good bone structure about it. A determined chin which perhaps suggested some stubbornness in its owner's personality.
Anselm, who could usually read peoples faces for the stories they would not tell, found he was unable to read the young man's blind eyes. They seemed to take in nothing, and they gave out nothing, either. Anselm wondered if the young man had been blind since birth. Those sensitive fingertips tracing the portion of stone window-sill seemed to suggest so.
Timothy had been patiently waiting in the cloister for the return of the gentle-voiced Brother Anselm. He heard the approaching soft footsteps long before they drew near. The monk was as quiet as any in the Abbey who had been occassionally passing by him in either direction along the length of the cloister, but he was not so quiet that Timothy's keen ears could not mark his return as soon as Brother Anselm entered the corridor. It was also easy to
recognise that it was now Brother Anselm approaching. The monk had a limp.
Timothy did not turn to face the monk as the sound of the footsteps drew nearer, but instead he continued to lightly trace the fingers of his right hand in thoughtful exploration along the stone sill of the window he faced. There was no warmth falling upon him from through the unglazed opening of the window - warmth which told him that the sun was shining in this direction. He knew that the evening was not yet dark, because there still came the sounds of birdsong. So he assumed he was standing in the chill of what sighted people called shade. He had never seen shade, but he knew what it felt like. Like a cold pool of water laying gently over him.
The stone sill of the window was chill. The stones which priories, churches and abbeys were built of never seemed to grow warm, not even in the heat of the summer sun. Timothy knew. Such stone seemed to readily absorb the cold of winter, but never the heat of summer. He remembered the stone passageways of his childhood at Thornton Abbey, and he shivered. St Marys' Abbey felt cold to him now - England felt cold to him now - even though he had been back in these climes for weeks and summer was well begun. He did not remember England being so cold before.
He supposed he would acclimatise.
Brother Anselm was drawing near, and Timothy jerked himself out of his thoughts and some old memories as there came the monks's gentle touch to his arm.
"Friend," Brother Anselm said, "the Abbot will grant you an audience now, in his private chamber whilst he sups."
Timothy turned towards the sound of the monk's voice, and smiled briefly in the direction of that voice. "That is most gracious of him," he said. He reached one hand out to the right of him to lay it it briefly on the cold stone sill of the cloister window. "I was drawn to the scents and sounds in the little garden that the cloister surrounds, Brother. I could hear the chatter of birds, the lazy buzz of bees. I can smell the scents of lavender, lemon-balm and camomile, amongst many others. There is a little garden out there, is there not?"
"Yes," Anselm confirmed gently, watching the young man curiously, "a small garden meant for contemplation and prayer, in which one can sit and appreciate and give thanks for all the glories of Nature which God gives us."
Timothy smiled again. "Glories indeed. And one does not need sight of eye in order to appreciate those glories." He turned his head back to the direction of the window, enjoying the soft draught that swept through it and caressed his face, bringing with it all the pleasurable scents of the herbs. "I am very fond of gardens. However, I generally spend more time in kitchen gardens. But couldn't resist a closer look at this particular garden after you left." He patted the stone sill with his hand. "So I found the window where I could stand and observe it better."
Anselm watched the young man curiously, bewildered by his usage of the word "look" when he appeared to be totally blind. "It is a way to the Abbot's private chambers," Anselm said, "here, my friend, allow me to assist." He took the young man's hand and placed it on his offered arm for guidance.
Timothy accepted the monk suddenly taking his hand and guiding it to a waiting arm with another smile. "Thank you," he said. "Unfamiliar surroundings can sometimes prove confusing."
"I am sure that they must be," Anselm agreed with gentle understanding. "If you are ready, young friend, we will move off." He had had some experience with guiding the blind due to working in the infirmary.
Timothy kept easy pace with Brother Anselm along the cloister. As they walked, Anselm curiously studied him. His hand lain on Anselm's arm was perfectly relaxed - another indicator to Anselm that he was not newly blind. The newly blind tended to cling to their guides in apprehension. This young man walked alongside his guide as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him.
"I trust Abbot Hugo is in good health," Timothy said at last out of the peaceful silence that existed between he and Anselm. "He has a heavy charge as Abbot of this great community as well as representative of the Church."
"He does indeed, young friend." Anselm replied. "I think that you will find the Abbot is in excellent health, thanks be to God." He looked ahead of him as they neared the end of the cloister. "We are approaching a narrow doorway, young friend; allow me to go through it a little ahead of you. Directly beyond the doorway is a newel staircase leading upwards. Can you find the steps?"
"Perfectly well, thank you," Timothy replied, changing his grip on his stick to extend it before him. Sweeping the stick from side to side before him, he followed Brother Anselm through the doorway, and his stick hit the vertical face of the first step.
Timothy halted for a moment and ran his stick in curious exploration up and along the first step, then the next one stacked above it, feeling through his stick the dimensions of this staircase, and finding the steps were wider to his left and narrower to his right. The staircase appeared to curve sharply upwards away from him, and the stone steps were in addittion steep. Keeping in mind Brother Anselm's limp, and the feel of the monk's gnarled hand which told Timothy the monk was elderly, Timothy ensured Anselm took the wider side of the staircase as they began to ascend. He himself was young and fit and a narrow set of steps like this were little effort.
"Do the Abbot's duties as Spiritual Father to the people of the area still require his frequent absence from St. Mary's, Brother?" Timothy asked idly of Brother Anselm as they climbed the steps. "I remember that he once found it necessary to spend much time in Nottingham."
"He still does upon occasion, my friend," Anselm replied as they ascended the twisting stone staircase, he a little ahead of Timothy to guide him. "Our good lord Abbot goes wherever he is needed, be it near or far."
"I am sure he does," Timothy murmured to himself, momentarily lost in thought, then jerked himself out of those thoughts to ask: "Does the Abbot's brother still serve the King as Sheriff of Nottingham?"
"He does indeed," Anselm replied.
Timothy fell to thought again. "Even after all these years..." he said quietly. "He must be a popular man...."
The last statement was said with not a little sarcasm lingering about it.
Anselm looked at the young man as they reached the top of the stone staircase and stood side by side. "Another narrow doorway, young friend. You go through it first." He touched Timothy's hand to the side of it. "And then we are out into one of the main passages." He remembered from past years of working in the Infirmary and with the blind that it was important to tell a blind person where they were and what route they were going along.
Timothy's fingers quickly travelled over the stone where Anselm had placed his hand. The ebony stick in his other hand gently tapped the opposite side of the doorway. He stepped forward without hesitation, his stick sweeping the stone passageway ahead of him as he entered.
Anselm stepped out into the stone passage after the young man, and Timothy again took Anselm's arm as soon as Anselm came through the door. "To our left, now," Anselm said. He waited until the young man had turned, and then moved on with him.
He wondered how confused the young man was by the route. "Such a place must seem akin to a rabbit warren to you," Anselm observed by way of conversation as they walked down the passage.
"Not at all," Timothy replied with a slight smile. "I was actually thinking how familiar all of it is. I was raised at Thornton Abbey and I've discovered that the interior map of all religious buildings is much the same wherever I have gone."
Anselm nodded thoughtfully to himself, absorbing the information. "What is your name, friend?" Anselm asked softly, as they walked along the passage.
"I was christened Timothy," he answered with a small, wry smile that appeared and almost immediately disappeared from his face.
Anselm noticed that the young man did not attach a locative by-name to his Christian name, thus giving no indication what town he may have sprung from originally. "Timothy is a good name from the Bible," Anselm approved. "I take it you come from this area? You have the accent of a man who was raised hereabouts."
"Yes," Timothy replied. "I was raised in this area, and I've never sought to abandon my native accent as I abandoned my home for a time."
Once again, Anselm absorbed what the young man had said. "The cool of the Abbey's interiors must feel blessed in comparison to the heat of the day without," he made conversation with. "It's a sunny day without. Very bright."
Timothy laughed softly. "I will take your word for the brightness of the day, Brother. I cannot see light. As for the cool interiors, I fear my blood has thinned while in other climes. The warmth is pleasant outside the Abbey, but it feels to me more like winter than summer in these passages."
Anselm glanced curiously at the young man as they walked along the passage. "Have you always been blind, young friend?" he inquired softly.
"I think so." Timothy was aware of giving a slight frown of thought at this question; it was a question he was often asked. "Or if I could see once, then I must have lost my sight in very early infanthood; so early that I cannot remember having sight. I am not sure, you see, as I was a foundling. All I know is that I was totally blind by the time I was four or five months of age - the age the monks of Thornton judged me to be when I was left at Thornton's gates. Whether I had sight or some sight before that age, I do not know. I know that I have no memory of ever having sight - whatever having sight may be like."
"How then did you manage to find St Marys if you are totally blind? You came alone, without a person to guide you." Anselm found it rather hard to believe that a man who was totally blind could find his way long distances with just the aid of his stick and ears and with no sighted guide. The dust on Timothy's clothes indicated that he had been travelling along dry dusty roads. How had he managed to find all the trackways and turnoffs required to reach St Marys? Anselm could not help but wonder.
Timothy laughed softly. "There's no great mystery in that, I assure you Brother. Many people travel in groups and it wasn't difficult to join a group that was headed in the direction of where I wished to go. I merely joined a group of travellers who were heading past this way, and I walked with them, followed the sound of them, using my stick to guide me along the road. I parted company with those travellers on the main road when my stick found the track leading off to the Abbey, and so I took that track and merely walked on alone. And I know this area well, as I was raised here. No man, blind or sighted, forgets his way around the area where he was raised."
Anselm halted. "We are here at the door to the Abbot's chamber, Timothy."
Timothy dropped his hand from Brother Anselm's arm and stood still as the monk stepped forward and rapped on the door before them.
Timothy found his heart was thudding as he waited for entrance to the chamber. The only sign of any tension Brother Anselm might have seen was a tightened grip on the stick in Timothy's left hand.
This was but the first of the moments that had occupied Timothy's thoughts for so many years. He had prepared as best he could for this meeting and now he waited for his entrance into the Abbot's presence. Into the lion's den.... But this time, it was different.
This time, he was not afraid of the lion....
Hugo had been waiting, hands tensed on the edge of the table. The food and the wine before him had quite lost his appeal. Instead, he listened to the sound of soft footsteps approach along the stone passageway to the chamber he resided in - and occasionally the click of a stick against the stone flags. He scowled to himself; for some strange reason that sound had stayed in his memory for the past eleven years, and it was a sound that he found vastly annoying. He remembered the last time he had heard it - a tapping sound which had faded away down the passageway instead of approaching, and he had hoped then that that would be the last time he would ever hear it.
He sat straight in his chair as the oak door was swung open, and Anselm and a young man stood framed in the doorway. Hugo glared at the young man as if hoping the look would strike him dead.
Anselm darted a look at the Abbot sitting straight and stiff at his dining table across the chamber, and thought with amazement that the Abbot had never given someone such a look of deadly hatred as he did with this young man.
Or such a look of underlying horror....
"Here, young friend." Anselm guided the young man forwards into the chamber and halted in the middle of it, facing Hugo.
Timothy lifted his head, immediately alert to his surroundings as Anselm guided him forward. Then Anselm halted and Timothy did too.
He took his hand from Anselm's guiding arm and stood alone, turning his head slightly to listen, to latch onto all the slight sounds and stirs of movement around him, all the scents that hung suspended in the air around him in the chamber, each one waiting its turn to be focused upon and examined and so yield clues that put together would give him a clear picture of where he was. A picture that was not the type of picture he had learned long ago that sighted people held in their minds, but a picture that was just as vivid and valid in its own right, and best of all, a picture that was unique, for it was of his own creation.
It was not a large chamber. His hearing had already established that. Although Anselm had only spoken one brief sentence to give echoes off the stone walls surrounding Timothy, he had listened to his and Anselms footsteps as they had entered the chamber, and even though their footsteps were somewhat muffled because of the rushes strewn on the floor, they had given enough echoes to enable Timothy to establish the basic dimensions of this chamber.
There was a window to his left and its shutter was open - he could feel a draught against his left cheek. Timothy turned his head slightly towards the direction of the draught, listening beyond the chamber, beyond the window, to the quiet serenity of St Marys beyond. It was a hot, heavy summers evening, and in the far distance he could hear a bell tolling, and a restive horse snorting.
The scent of fresh rushes and aromatic herbs on the floor beneath his feet mingled with the smell of fresh baked bread before him. There was, too, the odour of slightly off, cooked fish - and the sweet sharp scent of strawberries.
Timothy's nose twitched, he felt his brow crease briefly in a slight frown as he lifted his head slightly and sifted all the different layers of scents around him, placing many of the threads of those scents where they hung and drifted in the air around him. So, the Abbot was at supper.
What was the rest of the chamber like? Timothy turned his head slightly to curiously listen and gather information, ignoring the Abbot's presence before him for the moment. He lifted a hand to his mouth and gave a slight discreet cough, seemingly innocently but in truth with purpose behind it. It was obviously not fitting to speak until he was spoken to by the Abbot, so whilst he waited to hear echoes of their voices - and Timothy was quite sure that before this audience was over the very rafters of this chamber would be ringing with the echoes of their voices - he would make an echo of his own, to send out so it would bounce off his surroundings and come back to him from all angles, equipping him with a multi-directional awareness of dimension and distance relating to where he stood in this chamber.
There was something to his right, he learned, as the echo of his slight cough came back to him. The wall on his right opposite the wall with the window seemed...softer. He turned his head in that direction, endeavouring to define what was there. A hanging, maybe a tapestry, hung on that wall, he decided.
Another draught, this time the ghost of one, seemed to skirt the chamber and come towards him, brushing past the right side of him; it suggested that there was a partially open door in the wall some distance behind where the Abbot sat. No doubt that door led to the Abbot's bedchamber, Timothy guessed.
Anselm, who was uneasily hovering to one side of the young stranger, watched him, intrigued. What was he doing? Listening? Sensing? Who knew what ways the blind had of learning about the world.
The young man almost seemed to be studying the interior of the chamber. Observing, in his own way, without sight of eye...
Anselm could not help but feel intrigued at witnessing the blind young man clearly adeptly gathering information.
His brief study of his surroundings over with for the moment at least, Timothy turned his head back to face Hugo and stood without speaking as was fitting for a humble visitor before the Abbot of St. Mary's. He waited for Hugo to speak. He felt both nervous and amused. The nerves were from finally reaching this moment; a moment he had played out in his mind for months now, ever since he had decided to return to England. The amusement was from his certainty that Hugo was scrutinising him closely and probably with a good deal of displeasure.
Hugo's voice broke the silence in the stone chamber. "Leave us," he snapped at Anselm. "And close the door."
Anselm bowed his head and respectfully retreated, quietly closing the door behind him.
Timothy turned his head slightly to listen behind him as Anselm's quiet footsteps left the chamber and there came the creak of the heavy door closing. He listened beyond the door, and did not hear Anselm's footsteps recede down the passageway. Brother Anselm had not given the impression that he was the sort of monk who was given to gossipping or eavesdropping - and due to his childhood spent at Thornton Abbey Timothy knew that plenty of monks indulged in both - so presumably he was waiting outside the door should his aid be desired.
_Maybe the good Abbot will call upon him to throw me out,_ Timothy thought to himself with the flicker of a smile.
Where he sat behind his dinner table, Hugo narrowed his gaze at Timothy. The young man stood there in the middle of the chamber, and Hugo saw a faint brief smile cross his face - what he was smiling at, Hugo did not know, as the smile was not directed at anything, but all the same, that faint smile annoyed him.
He studied the young man more intently, noting with displeasure that he seemed fit and healthy.
_Blind since birth but otherwise fit and healthy, God curse him,_ Hugo thought sourly. _I would that childhood illness had carried him off so that he would be one less thing to worry about - but alas he proved to be a strong little brat...._
Timothy had grown from a youth of fifteen to a man of twenty-six in the past eleven years since Hugo had last seen him - but there was little change about that defiant, determined, impudent face...
"Sit," Hugo ordered curtly.
Timothy inclined his head slightly in an humble, obedient gesture and smoothly swept his stick out before him and to his side. It encountered something with the solid sound of wood and he took a step in that direction. He kept sweeping his stick before him, discovering if there were any obstacles in his path and the dimensions of the wooden object. His stick encountered more wood about knee height on the shaft and he took one more step and bent, feeling before him for the expected seat of a wooden bench. A final step took him to it and he gracefully sat down, propping his stick against the bench, its tip resting on the floor before him. He controlled the urge to shiver again, uncertain if it sprang from cold or tension.
The table was just before him. He put both hands slightly before him, and they found its edge. The table was at stomach level. Resting the fingers of both hands lightly against the edge of it, Timothy slightly strayed those fingers over the cloth that he found was draped across the table. Fine quality linen cloth.
_Lift your head,_ Timothy told himself, _and level it with this odious man's voice._ The sighted, he knew, had ways of staring down an opponent - whatever that was like. He could not do that - but he could consciously adopt the lift of the head that a sighted person possessed when "staring down" an enemy. He had learned over the years how to do that, and knew by now he could do it to good effect.
Timothy straightened his shoulders and defiantly lifted his head, keeping his face turned towards the sound of the Abbot's heavy breathing and levelled to it. And all the while he listened. Waited.
Surveying the blind young man with a distasteful but beady eye, Hugo waited until Timothy had settled himself, then glared at him again. "What do YOU want?" he snapped.
"It is kind of you to grant me an audience, my lord Abbot," Timothy replied smoothly. "It's late and I see that I interrupt....other important matters requiring your attention." He lifted his hand for a moment to motion in Hugo's direction and at the food spread on the table.
Hugo scoffed, keeping his unease as well disguised as he could manage. "SEE? - What is this arrant nonsense you spout? You don't SEE." He leaned across the narrow table between them and waved his hand in front of Timothy's face and unresponsive eyes. "You don't SEE," Hugo sneered. "You were a born-blind brat, you'll always be a born-blind brat...."
Timothy heard the sweep of the Abbot's arm, sensed the movement of a hand waving back and forth just in front of his face, felt the rush of air against his face caused by the motion of that hand, and knew by that exactly what the Abbot was doing. It was what people sometimes did with him - wave their hand in front of his face to discover if they could get any reaction, any indication that he could see anything. It was a strange kind of test the sighted occasionally felt obliged to carry out on him in order to prove to themselves that he was totally blind. Timothy had never been able to fathom it; sometimes, sighted people could be very strange.
This gesture of Hugo's, along with the scornful remark annoyed him, but he endeavoured to keep restrained his slow-growing anger in favour of annoying the Abbot as much as possible, and so he inclined his head in humble acknowledgement of Hugo's words. "A manner of speech, only, my lord Abbot. These past years out in the world, I have adopted some sighted terms of speech as well as other habits."
"Hah," said Hugo scornfully, taking up his goblet and taking a long noisy draught of it, "and all bad habits as well, I'll warrant."
"Thank you for your gracious reminder of the truth of my blindness, my lord Abbot," Timothy continued. "But then, that is your spiritual duty: to remind us to be truthful in all our speech, is it not. We are fortunate to have servants of the Church such as yourself to remind us of this duty to truth, lest we sin against God," Timothy concluded piously and crossed himself.
Hugo gave a sarcastic snort, thumped his goblet down upon the linen-covered table and glared at the young man. "Don't you take that pious tone of voice with ME, Timothy of Thornton; I know from observing you in childhood and youthood that you're anything but pious! Doubtless you have sinned against God countless of times since I saw you last!"
Hugo leant across the narrow, linen-covered table laden with food and spoke with nasty, heavy meaning. "Like FATHER, like SON."
Timothy felt the heat of anger wash across his face as his grip on his temper slipped a little.
"YOU would know about that better than I, my lord Abbot," he replied with scorn. "I have always thought I did not share many characteristics with my FATHER.... Until now I have not practised many of the family traits such as avarice, duplicity and ruthlessness. But 'blood will tell', they say, and it is in my blood to pursue my ends with all the abilities and means at my disposal."
Timothy leaned forwards, as if imparting a confidence. "No family ties will hinder my purpose any more than they would hinder any other member of my family, Hugo - I beg pardon; my - lord - Abbot."
He spoke the last three words with calm clear determined meaning, along with more than a touch of sarcasm.
"You will pay for your insolence!" Hugo spluttered.
Timothy drew back from where he had been leaning forwards over the table. "I've paid for it before, my lord Abbot - and answered to far bigger fish in the pond than the one YOU swim in." He directed a slight smile towards the sound of the Abbot's enraged breathing. "I think I will survive, no matter what pond I am thrown into. I can swim."
"You should have been smothered as an infant," Hugo sneered. "An unwanted brat - and a blind unwanted brat at that! God should have seen fit to erase you from existence!"
Timothy suddenly frowned and banged the flat of his hand down abruptly on the linen-covered table before him in anger, making everything on it rattle. "Don't you tell me that a child who is blind has no right to exist, you hypocrite! God clearly decided to bring me into existence, blind or no, and so here I am!" He leaned slightly forwards once more and spoke with emphasis. "And the blind unwanted brat has grown up into a man, my lord Abbot, and has come back to SEE you. How do you like that?" He listened interestedly to the silent presence before him, turning his head slightly to focus with one ear. "I see you do not like it at all," Timothy concluded amusedly.
In truth, he felt his heart thudding in his chest, and Heaven knew what his face could be displaying. It sometimes betrayed him when he tried so hard to appear unconcerned. He had learned over the years a great many sighted gestures and phrases, done his best to learn all the subtle facial movements that he felt sighted people's faces use - but he knew sometimes when he felt his face twitch that it belied his tone of voice and his calm manner.
Timothy could feel his face was twitching with emotion now, but he ignored it and continued in a calm manner, designed to irritate Hugo. "YOU may grudge my existence, my lord Abbot, but I am very glad I live. Life is good. Blind unwanted brat or no, life is good and I enjoy it. Life always has a purpose. Don't you think? What do you suppose the purpose of my existence is for? Perhaps...one of the purposes of my life, my existence....is not to allow you to forget. Whatever it is....that you would rather forget. I'm something you can't sweep under the rushes, my lord Abbot, am I? I realised that eleven years ago - the last time we met. And I swore then that I would come back and see you, my lord Abbot. That has always been my intention."
Hugo glared at Timothy but could find nothing to say.
His silence spoke volumes to Timothy. He leaned a little further forwards across the table that divided them and spoke softly but meaningfully. "Maybe...I'm your punishment, my lord Abbot." Timothy directed a brief slight smile at Hugo. "Well, I'm not a ghost come back to haunt you, am I? So maybe I'm your punishment - and God has sent me along to collect on your past sins."
"You miserable wretch, how dare you presume what my sins are!" Hugo sneered.
Timothy sat back from the table, keeping both hands tensed upon the edge of it. "Sins, my lord Abbot, find everyone out, sooner or later." He gave the Abbot another smile, then gave a delighted head-swing to himself and a slight laugh at witnessing Hugo's aura of discomfort following that statement. "I didn't grow up in an abbey and not learn anything, you know. Contrary to what YOU believe...."
Hugo subsided and glared at the young man, somewhat disturbed by the peculiar head-movement which seemed to have slipped out instinctively. There were times that this blind young man seemed almost sighted - but there were other characteristics about him which jarred with that impression and every so often were unsettling. The way the young man turned his head to listen rather than to look, for one. The inability to have eye-contact with him was also greatly unsettling - Hugo prided himself on his withering looks, able to silence an irritating person at twenty paces. It was annoying in the extreme to realise that withering looks - or any sort of look come to that - would have no effect on Timothy.
Hugo decided instead to put as much scorn as he could into his voice. "I assume you haven't come to St Mary's for the good of your SOUL...."
"I am seeking service as a master cook while I remain in the area, my lord Abbot," Timothy said. "My plans depend much on being fortunate enough to secure such a position. If I do succeed in finding a favourable position, I might be here for a lengthy period."
Hugo lifted his goblet and drank from it. He huffed into his wine. "You - a master cook! A blind man - a master cook! Ridiculous. You were just a blind brat when you ran away from Thornton Abbey eleven years ago - and I hoped you'd died in a ditch somewhere to save us all a lot of trouble. How in God's name did someone like you get to be a master cook."
"I was fortunate enough to attract the attention of a master cook who took me as his servant and assistant. He taught me many things about the art of cookery, my lord Abbot." Timothy smiled inwardly at the frustration and irritation in Hugo's voice. "Had it not been for my master I may well have ended up dead in a ditch
somewhere. He became like a father to me over the past few years."
"A master cook!" Hugo scoffed again. "Don't make me laugh."
Timothy waved a hand at the food spread on the table between himself and Hugo. "So....let me see, my lord Abbot - what are you supping on this eve before you retire for the night? Have your kitchens provided the plain fare that an austere priest of God such as yourself doubtless prefers?"
He lightly ran one hand over the linen cloth until it came into contact with the side of a large earthenware bowl, warm to the touch. "Pottage, stew? I smell fish..." Timothy ran his fingers around the rim of the bowl exploratively before dipping one fingertip into its contents and then putting the fingertip in his mouth to taste. "Eel - stewed eels." He felt his face twist up in reaction to the taste on his tongue. "Too much salt - and herbs. Your cook needs to learn to balance such flavours. Achieve more subtleness. What else is there...." he travelled his hand once more over the table in exploration whilst Hugo stared on at him, taken aback and seething with silent anger at this intrusion; Timothy was well aware by the man's heavy breathing that he was annoyed but pretended he did not notice it.
"Cheese..." his fingers lightly passed over the small round cheese on the platter, examining it, and prodded deep into the rind. "Under-ripe," Timothy concluded, and feeling over the platter to the side of the cheese, found the new-baked bread. "The bread smells good, though...." He tore off a small piece and rubbed it between thumb and fingers to discover how light it was. "Well-risen and fresh - made with fine flour too - fit in fact to grace a nobleman's table. Not the gritty fare poor folk and monks are supposed to eat... As I well remember from my growing-up days at Thornton Abbey...."
Timothy tore off another small piece of the bread and this time popped it in his mouth to chew on it appreciatively; in all truth he was hungry. "And what other fare do you have, my lord Abbot? I smell pork, freshly roasted." He travelled his hand lightly and astutely once more over the linen-covered table, seeking, and finding an iron platter on which was a sizable hunk of meat. He took up the sharp knife which lay across the iron platter, expertly sliced off a sliver of the pork, stabbed it up with the tip of the knife and transfered it to his mouth, whereupon he chewed and swallowed. "Now that's not bad," Timothy approved. "Lean meat roasted to perfection and with just the right amount of spices."
He laid the knife back on the plate. "And this is all for you, my lord Abbot? Or are you expecting noble guests in your chamber this eve and they dine on this whilst you in fact intend to eat nothing but vegetable pottage and coarse bread? Well, let me see...." He stretched out a long arm across the table in Hugo's direction and felt around on the table - his fingers quickly found the platter set before Hugo and felt over the food Hugo had helped himself to; Hugo watched in speechless anger as the blind young man fingered over the food on his very platter before him, examining it by touch. "No - I see you have the fine bread, the pork and the unripe cheese on your platter too," Timothy observed. He left off examining Hugo's platter and instead he moved both hands wide across the linen clothed table, beyond the food, to explore the surface of the table on either side of Hugo. "Funny thing - I don't feel any other places set for anyone else on this table-"
"Stop it!" Hugo hissed angrily, glaring at him. "You're disgraceful! - a blind unmannered savage - fingering over another man's food like that!"
Timothy, still feeling with both hands out across the table to either side of him, gave a smile in the direction of the angry hissing and hoped that the smile not only found its target, but served to annoy further. "Lost your appetite, my lord Abbot? Well, never matter - you can always drink, can't you? What have you here to drink?" He felt to what was Hugo's right, guessing the location of the goblet. His fingers found the pewter stem of the goblet, and travelled upwards and around the body of it lingeringly, admiring the richly chased shape that was studded with smooth cabochon stones.
"That's a beautiful drinking vessel," Timothy admired, tracing round the largest cabochon stone with a fingertip - then lifted his hand and dipped the same fingertip into the liquid within the goblet and tasted. "Fine Malmsey." He lifted the goblet and conveyed it to his lips to take a gulp, tilting his head back; the wine flowed welcome warmth down his throat and into his stomach.
Timothy set the goblet back down on the linen covered table. "What's for dessert, my lord Abbot? - I can smell strawberries." He felt over the table and found the bowl of fruit that exuded the delicious smell which only strawberries picked recently in the heat of the sun gave off. The scent of them brought vivid memories back to Timothy of his times in warmer climes. His fingers lingered over the hulled whole strawberries, paused; selected a plump berry. "From your own Abbey gardens?" Timothy asked in admiration, gently squeezing the strawberry between thumb and forefinger. "They are ripe to perfection. The sweetest they can be."
The fingers of his other hand found the bowl of thick cream set next to the bowl of strawberries. "But what's this?" Timothy trailed a fingertip across the bowl of cream and tasted it whilst Hugo watched on in speechless horror and fury. "Cream mixed with a little sweet wine," Timothy observed. "Not exactly plain fare for a humble man of God, is it? I prefer new-gathered strawberries the way God intended," he concluded, and popped the strawberry he had selected into his mouth.
Hugo had had enough; leaning forwards, he shot out a hand and grasped the neck of Timothy's tunic, knotting his fist in it and pulling an off-guard Timothy forwards across the table so they were face to face. "How DARE you! You will live to regret this - this INSOLENCE, this - this INTRUSION of my supper table!" Hugo said furiously.
"My lord Abbot, you misunderstand; I was merely displaying to you my culinary knowledge learned, so you see that I do not lie when I say I am indeed a master cook by trade now. As for fingering the contents of your supper table - my lord Abbot, I am but a humble blind man, who uses touch and taste and smell where others use sight, and for that you can hardly blame me," Timothy choked quickly back in response, finding the pressure against his throat just a little too much, but determined not to lose his temper nor offer resistance - both of which he knew Hugo would dearly love to witness.
No, it was far better to annoy the Abbot - certainly more amusing...
Hugo's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Humble blind man! You are anything but!"
"Mayhap you would have a place for my skills in YOUR kitchen, my lord Abbot?" Timothy gasped as the fist knotted in the neck of his tunic twisted it tighter against his throat.
Hugo's eyes, already bulging, practically popped out of his head at this. "You jest!"
He stared at the young man before him, then, suddenly becoming mindful of his position as Abbot, roughly released Timothy and sat back. It would not be good for Anselm or someone else to suddenly enter and find him in the process of throttling a blind man.
It was with some relief that Timothy felt the neck of his tunic released and Hugo's looming presence draw back from him; upon being released he sat back hurriedly on the bench and put his hand up to his throat to rub away the feeling of constriction which lingered.
"No, my lord Abbot," he hastened to reassure Hugo in a serious tone. "I assure you that I do not jest.Though I have no definite plans, I would like to tarry at home now. I've been away too long."
Hugo sprang out of his chair and paced round the table, glaring at Timothy where he sat still, and moving round to behind Timothy, he paced back and forth behind the young man in a semi circle, like a agitated bird of prey, all the time glaring at him.
Timothy immediately twisted his head round to listen, tracking the Abbot's pacing with his ears. Someone pacing around him always uneased and annoyed him; he had to keep turning his head to listen, and someone constantly moving back and forth behind him proved a difficult target to lock his hearing onto. Such an angry agitated presence at his back, such restless movements behind him made him feel more vulnerable, and people who were behind him were far more difficult to read than people who were directly in front of him.
Immediately he was wary by Hugo's move to a different location. He was aware of being studied; more than aware of Hugo's angry aura which was being projected forwards to hit him like a cold wave crashing over him, and he sensed something about Hugo which suggested the man was poised like a snake ready to strike. Whether the strike would be physical or verbal, Timothy had no idea, and that was unsettling in itself.
But he had no intention of turning to face Hugo. He was not going to be that compliant and move to suit the Abbot. Besides, he could feel his face twitching with a multitude of expressions, which, if they reflected his inner feelings, could only be expressions of doubt and apprehension. If he kept his back to Hugo, then Hugo would not be able to see those expressions.
So Timothy lifted his head defiantly and kept a straight back presented to the Abbot behind him whilst he spoke out clearly with far more calmness than he felt.
"If you have no place for me in your kitchens here, my lord Abbot, I will visit Nottingham. I understand that your brother, Robert de Rainault, is still the Sheriff. Perhaps he would be glad to see me again and give me a place in his service."
Where he had been pacing back and forth behind where the young man sat, Hugo stopped dead and stared at Timothy. He made no response to Timothy's remark, but rubbed his chin thoughtfully and a sly smile crept over his face as he regarded the young man.
Immediately alert to the cessation of Hugo's angry restless pacing, Timothy, bewildered, jerked his head round slightly to listen to the Abbot's silence, attempting to read him and to work out what he was doing. Silence told him nothing, and after a moment's further listening to nothing but silence in response to his remark, Timothy gave an irritated head-swing.
Hugo saw frustration as well as irritation in the gesture, and his sly smile deepened. Timothy might speak calmly and present a collected manner - but his physical behaviour showed increasing agitation, and being blind, he seemed to be unconscious of how much agitation his physical behaviour was displaying.
_So he wants information, the cunning blind wretch that he is,_ thought Hugo, staring daggers at the straight back and the head that kept jerking slightly round to listen for little sounds and movements that would give him clues. _And he knows that much information can be given unconsciously in the heat of anger. Well, he will get none of that from me. Not the information he REALLY wants...._
Still met with nothing but silence, Timothy collected himself and attempted another barb that he hoped would gain a response from the odious Abbot. "I want to go to Thornton again as well. I am eager to visit the one place that is truly home to me and see those I have missed. It will be good to spend time with Brother Tuck and others again. Or is it Abbot Tuck by now?" he asked meaningfully with a faint laugh designed to irritate.
Hugo stopped short his pacing behind Timothy, and drew quietly up close behind Timothy. He leaned over Timothy's left shoulder from behind and lowered his head to speak with quiet but malicious intent into Timothy's left ear.
"Oh, so I see you haven't kept your ear close enough to the ground to hear about your old FRIEND, Brother Tuck," Hugo said sneeringly, watching the young man's face for reaction to the words he was about to impart next. If there was one person in the world that Hugo was sure Timothy cared about, it was Tuck, and Hugo was prepared to do as much damage there as possible. "What happened to him... He had the greatest hand in raising you at Thornton, didn't he. He was almost like a FATHER to you. WASN'T he."
The past tense Hugo used along with the sneering almost triumphant tone shot for the first time real fear into Timothy's heart - because the tense and the tone was coupled with Tuck's name. Tuck, who had been in his perception for as long as he could remember, and who had been at the centre of his life throughout his childhood years. It had been Tuck who had read to him, applied salve to grazed knees, been the gentle hand which had stroked his cheek and hair when he had been upset and needed soothing. It had been Tuck who had taught him about the world around him and given him the freedom to explore it with never a word added that he could not do something because he was blind. It had been Tuck who had first put a guiding stick into his curious three year old hand and shown him how to use it and find his way alone. His earliest memory was of trotting along Thornton's cold stone cloisters in Tuck's wake, tapping that stick from left to right before him and following Tuck by sound; following him like a blind lamb followed its mother.
He had never known mother or father or siblings. But Tuck had been father, mother, brother, friend and mentor all rolled into one - and from the earliest time that Timothy could remember, Tuck had been the centre, the focus, of his world at Thornton.
The thought now that something could have happened to Tuck was a thought hard to bear.
Hugo watched with pleasure Timothy's reaction to his words. The young man's face clouded with apprehension, his head jerked higher as soon as Hugo used the past tense with Tuck, and he began to frown intermittently, pulling all manner of agitated facial expressions.
"What - what do you mean - WASN'T he?" Timothy questioned tentatively at last, breaking what was for him an unbearable silence.
Hugo smiled slyly to himself, noting the dread unconsciously displayed on Timothy's face. "Oh, he's not DEAD. Not yet, anyway - but who knows - I'll wager he'll get a sword in his back before too long. Just a matter of time."
Hugo moved round, leaned forwards over Timothy's other shoulder and spoke into Timothy's right ear this time; Timothy slightly jerked his head round in that direction, somewhat disorientated by the sudden switch in the direction of Hugo's voice as well as unsettled by what he was hearing from Hugo.
"Your precious Tuck has been outlawed. Excommunicated, consigned to the depths of Hell," Hugo sneered, watching Timothy's face with delight. "He's currently running around Sherwood forest with the man they call Robin i the Hood and his bunch of renegades." He moved round to look into the young man's face with a nasty glee, bringing his face close to Timothy's and speaking in the same quiet but malicious tone. "He's no longer welcome at Thornton Abbey. And neither, Timothy of Thornton, are you."
Timothy listened to the malicious tone. "No," he said quietly at last, trying to keep his voice steady. "No, I don't believe you. I was raised at Thornton - the good folk there would not turn me away if I arrived at their gate. Nor would they turn away Tuck. You lie, Abbot."
Hugo looked straight into the young man's eyes, almost curiously. He had never been this close to them before, and they were in a way fascinating - eyes which let in no light. He watched how the eyes roved strangely around, never settling on anything - and he was suddenly jolted by the shock of remembrance, because he was swept back to being nineteen years old and being close to a pair of eyes similar - eyes not blind, but eyes the same colour as this young man's - large soft brown eyes framed by long dark lashes. Those eyes when he was nineteen had looked seductively at him and had made him wish he was not destined for the Church.
That had been his last winter of freedom before going into the Church...
"Dear God!" Hugo suddenly shuddered and drew immediately back from close proximity where he had been studying Timothy, staring at him with horror. "Damn you - damn those eyes of yours! They haunt me! They're the eyes of your mother..."
He swung away, to stand at the end of the table clutching the edge of it, finding he was shivering, sweating with a cold sweat - because those eyes had suddenly reminded him that the danger was never absent - and with the return of this young man, so had the danger returned, and increased tenfold whilst this young man still lived and demanded answers to certain questions...
Bewildered - nay, stunned by the Abbot's sudden outburst, Timothy listened to the man swing away and be silent - then put his hand up to his face and fingered bemusedly over his eyes, feeling them blink.
"I have the eyes of my mother? I have my mother's eyes? What do you MEAN?" he demanded agitatedly of Hugo, and then some small measure of realisation hit him and he demanded: "Do you KNOW what my mother LOOKS like, Abbot? Did you KNOW my mother? Who IS she??" Then as Hugo did not answer, Timothy swung his head in growing frustration at the silence and banged his hand angrily down against the linen covered table once more - anything to get the Abbot to focus his attention back on him. "TELL me!" Timothy demanded.
For a moment that seemed as brittle as spun glass, there was only silence between them in the chamber. Timothy heard his anxious heightened breathing as though it came from someone else.
Hugo looked round at him, and his voice when it at last broke the silence was cold and final. "Get out of here."
Timothy rose to stand and face the Abbot, keeping one hand in contact with the table. "No," he said steadily. "I want to know who my mother is. It is my right-"
"-You have NO rights!" Hugo snapped back at him suddenly, cutting him short. "You were a born-blind bastard that nobody wanted - you have NO rights!"
Timothy felt beside him for his stick propped against the bench, and taking it up, walked alongside the length of the trestle table, trailing the fingertips of one hand along it in guidance until he reached the end of the table where Hugo stood. He halted and faced the sound of the Abbot's heavy breathing.
"My rights are why I came back," Timothy said quietly and steadily and with determination. "Because I want some answers, my lord Abbot. About who my mother is. About who *I* am. I asked you these questions eleven years ago and you did not answer them."
He leaned slightly more forwards to Hugo and spoke with calm and deadly meaning. "I was but a fifteen year old boy then, no match for you, and I ran away. I'm not going to run away this time, my Lord Abbot. I am going to haunt you until I have the answers I want."
"Then you will die waiting," Hugo sneered.
Timothy's right hand went to the knife at his belt. "Are you threatening me, Abbot?" he asked softly.
"And if I were?" Wonderful visions of arranging to have this annoying young man stabbed in the back up to the dagger hilt and the body made unrecognisable and cast away in a ditch full of refuse briefly filled Hugo's mind.
_Could I?_ The tantalising possibility suddenly ran through Hugo's mind. _DARE I? - to have him gone for good after years of living in this shadow of fear merely because he EXISTS would be blessed relief-_
Timothy's hand closed over his dagger handle. "I am full capable of defending myself."
Hugo scoffed and made a dismissive gesture. "Pray do not make me fall to hilarity over the image of a blind man flailing a dagger about in the misguided belief that he could defend himself against a sighted attacker."
Timothy felt the heat of anger flare into his face. "You underestimate me, my lord Abbot."
"On the contrary," Hugo replied coldly, "you under-estimate ME."
He brought his face suddenly close to Timothy's and spoke with quiet savagery. "Do you know how EASY it would be for me to arrange to have you killed? One day, when you least expect it-"
Hugo stopped short as glancing down, he noted for the first time the detail of the guiding stick the young man carried. It was no ordinary peasant staff, but an elegant long and slender stick of ebony, topped with what Hugo saw now was a silver knob - and on that knob was engraved a heraldic shield.
The sight of that shield almost made Hugo's heart stop. He drew back from Timothy and stared down at the silver-topped stick clasped by its shaft in the young man's right hand.
"Where did you get that?" Hugo asked suspiciously.
Timothy twitched a frown, bewildered, not understanding what Hugo was referring to. "Get what?"
"That - that stick," Hugo said edgily, gesturing down at it, forgetting that Timothy could not see what he gestured to. "That stick you use to tap before you when you walk."
Timothy frowned again, completely bewildered by now by the abrupt change of subject. "My mentor gave it to me as a farewell gift when I departed his service." He gave a slight uneased and sarcastic laugh. "Why?" He drew the stick up close against him almost as though to protect it, and ran the fingertips of his left hand over the silver knob that topped it. "Did you think I had stolen it?"
"Wouldn't put it past you," Hugo said peevishly, "you were always a thieving little brat."
He subsided, watching closely the young man's uplifted face, and then glanced down at those sensitive fingertips which were idly tracing over the heraldic shield engraved on the silver knob.
_He can feel that there is a design there,_ Hugo thought, watching those fingertips, _but he has no idea what it is..._
Hugo looked up into the young man's still vaguely bewildered face.
_I cannot arrange to have him killed. It would mean my own death. His very possession of that stick, though he does not know it, is a warning to all who would seek to harm him._
Hugo shuddered, and half turning away from Timothy, leaned his hands on the table and stared down at it, his mind awhirl with unwelcome images of the past. "Get out of my sight," he said coldly at last.
"No," Timothy said steadily. "Not until I have the answers I want."
"You will never hear them from me," Hugo said stonily.
Timothy's fingers tightened around the shaft of his stick. "Then you know where I will go next, my lord Abbot, in order to seek the truth."
Hugo suddenly turned upon him in a fury. "Get out! Are you deaf as well as blind?! Get OUT of my SIGHT!" He reached out and pushed Timothy sharply in the shoulder, sending him staggering backwards a step caught off-balance, then turned his attention to the table of food and in a sudden fit of temper that King John himself would have been proud of, dashed his arm along it, sending platters and bowls crashing to the stone floor; Timothy winced at the volume of the crashes and immediately instinctively raised his arm to shield his face, half-expecting some missile thrown by Hugo.
"Get OUT!" Hugo shrieked.
Anselm, waiting outside in the passage for the audience to be over and expecting to be called in to guide the young traveller to the refectory for a meal or to the dormitory for a bed for the night, was startled beyond belief to hear the raised voices coming from within the chamber and the crashes. He stood frozen, unsure whether to intrude - for he knew his lord Abbot's temper well - and then decided that it was better not to interfere unless he was called for by the Abbot.
"Get out!" Hugo shrieked at Timothy, and picking up the heavy iron platter the bread had been on, hurled it at him. It hurtled past Timothy, missing his head by inches to crash against the stone wall and clatter to the floor - Timothy felt the missile hurtle past him and for that instant froze with horrified fear, realising how close some heavy object thrown by Hugo had come to hitting him.
He turned and stumbled quickly to where he judged the door to be, grasping his stick by the shaft and not employing it in his fearful rush to be out of range of any other missiles. He suddenly came up against the stone wall with a smack, recoiled a step from the collision, cursed, and scrabbled frantically along the line of the wall, feeling for the door which he knew was along here somewhere.
"Out - out of my sight!" Hugo shrieked, and flung his goblet at the young man. It bounced off the stone wall just by Timothy's head; he involuntary ducked though the danger of being hit by it was past - and his fingers thankfully met upon the solid oak of the door. He felt quickly over it to find the handle.
"You've not seen the last of me, Abbot - that I can guarantee you!" Timothy flung furiously at Hugo in one final threat, and opening the door, swiftly ducked through it, hanging onto the handle of the door to slam it shut behind him.
Hugo swore, and snatching up the bowl of strawberries, flung it at the closing door behind Timothy; the pottery bowl hit the oak door and smashed, pieces of pottery flying in all directions, whilst the strawberries fell to the floor and rolled in all directions.
Where he stood outside in the passage, getting his breath back, Timothy heard the crash against the door, his head jerked higher at the noise, recognising well by the sound what had happened and he swore. "God curse him!"
Anselm stared at Timothy, shocked by the curse. The calm young man who had walked with him to the Abbot's chamber was gone. His head was lifted high and his brow kept creasing in a series of frowns. The frowns and the agitated and angry expressions which kept crossing his face were not directed at a surprised Anselm, nor even at the closed door which now separated Timothy from the Abbot, but at the blank stone wall, and the hand that wasn't grasping his guiding stick flailed angrily up and down through empty air before him in abrupt furious movements, as though he smote at an invisible foe before him - a peculiar formless gesture which yet expressed his fury only too well to onlookers.
The young man who had oddly seemed almost sighted in a way as Anselm had escorted him from the Abbey gate to the Abbot's chamber, now looked exactly what he was in all truth - someone born blind who did not know in his emotional state how he was presenting himself.
Where he stood in the passage, Timothy stopped flailing his hand in angry expression, lowered his head, drew a deep breath as though to calm and collect himself, then grasping his guiding stick by its silver top, extended it to feel over the stone floor before him, turned sharply left and headed smartly off down the passage.
"My friend-" Anselm began startled, as Timothy brushed past him, accidentally clipping him slightly with his shoulder in his haste to be away. "Take my arm-"
"I don't need guidance, Brother," Timothy replied abruptly, forging determinedly on with angry stride.
He was aware he was slightly veering from side to side down this long stone passage. Such was the way when he was not in contact with a tactile guideline like a path's verge or a fence or wall or other type of edge and so could follow that guideline with his stick.
He needed to find the right-hand wall; the newel staircase had been on his left-hand side approaching Hugo's chamber. Timothy purposely veered to his right, switched his stick from his right hand to left and felt out to his side with his right hand, and his hand connected with cold vertical stone.
He paused for a moment, swept his stick round in an arc before him until it connected with the wall on his right also, and then trailing the fingertips of his free hand along the wall, he marched determinedly onwards, still angry, following the line of the wall and tapping his stick furiously from left to right across his way ahead in quick, angry movements which mirrored his current mood. The passageway rang with the quick angry noisy clicking of his stick against the stone flags, sending a myriad of echoes back to him.
He wished his stick was hitting against Hugo's face instead of the passageway's stone floor.
Anselm stared at Timothy's swift and assured path along the stone passageway, amazed that the young man was able to retrace the route they had come when he had walked it only once.
Although it was not meet to hurry, he hurried to catch up with the young man, concerned that without his guidance, Timothy could suffer a mishap. "Along here just a little further, my friend, and then-"
"I know," Timothy said shortly, still striding on angrily tapping his stick before him.
He could feel a draught now rushing at him along the passageway, he could feel a difference in the space ahead of him. The echoes made by his stick altered. He turned his head to the right, sensing that ahead of him in the wall that his fingers were currently in contact with, there was a gap.
He slowed, just as his stick as it tapped to his right hit not the stone wall, but space, and immediately he halted.
"The staircase," he remarked.
He moved a step forwards, sliding his hand lightly along the stone wall ahead until it met the curving edge of the doorway, and beyond that curving away edge, space.
Anselm, having caught up with him, halted beside him and watched him curiously.
"I have a good memory, Brother," was all Timothy said in explanation, aware that he was being observed.
"You can remember the route I brought you - and set it into reverse to find your way back...." Anselm began in admiration that he hoped did not sound patronising.
Timothy cast a brief but humourless smile in the monk's direction; he was well-used to sighted folk's amazement over how he could find his way, and well-used to explaining "It's no less than sighted people can do, good Brother. Remembering routes they walk and reversing them when they need to turn back. I just do it without sight of eye, that is all."
He ran his hand down the stone edge of the opening. "I am continually presented with a series of mazes I must find my way around, and if I am to get on in the world at all, and indeed survive, I must quickly learn each maze I encounter. St Marys is but another maze - and a maze I know my way out of because you showed me the way in."
Putting out his hand to find the wall, he swiftly ran his stick along the stone flags before him and found the edge of the first curving step of the newel staircase. Keeping his hand in contact with the stone wall of the staircase, and keeping to the outermost of the spiral where the steps were widest, he began to descend the steep and narrow newel staircase, finding the edge of each step below with his stick before he stepped down onto it, instantly evolving into a swift rhythmic descent with guiding stick tapping ahead and feet following without one pause or falter. He spoke over his shoulder to Anselm who followed him around and down the spiral staircase.
"You find your way around by seeing, Brother - I find my way around by using my ears and my stick and a whole host of other skills. We both achieve our aim and end up where we want to be, though we use different methods."
Timothy's stick found the last step and beyond it the level surface of more stone flags. He stepped down onto those stone flags, aware of the space of the doorway before him, and put out his hand for the side of it. Finding the narrow doorway, he moved through it and out into the cloisters once more, where the air of the hot evening hit him.
There, he had the good grace to halt and wait for the out of breath Anselm, who had been puffing down the twisting staircase behind him, doing his best to keep up. Timothy drew back from the doorway, drew his stick up to his chest so as for it not to be in the way and trip the monk up, and he waited, listening to the out of breath movements of the man as Anselm descended the last of the staircase.
He had been aware on the journey to Hugo's chamber that this gently spoken monk limped, but now Timothy realised that hurrying after him along the passageway and trying to keep up with him down the newel staircase had made Anselm's limp far more pronounced.
"You're lame," Timothy observed as Anselm came through the open doorway.
Anselm was grateful that the young man had decided to wait for him and had not strode angrily off once more. "You heard."
"And felt. When I had your arm in guidance, you pulled slightly away from me with every step." Timothy turned his head to focus in on the monk's uneven footsteps with his hearing as Anselm moved out into the cloisters. "It's your left leg, isn't it? What happened?"
Anselm limped over. "I had an argument with a cart when I was no older than you."
Timothy gave a smile at the monk as he came up to him. "Sounds like the cart won, friend."
Anselm smiled, in spite of himself, and then looked Timothy curiously in the face, growing used to the fact that there was no eye-contact between them. There was something eminently likable, even endearing about this young man, despite the blaze of fury he had displayed on marching from the Abbot's chamber. It seemed that he had a quick temper, but the temper seemed quickly spent and Anselm judged that the young man did not take whatever mood he was in out on those who were undeserving of it.
"Forgive me," Timothy said, "I should have shown you the courtesy of waiting to walk with you, even if I didn't need your arm in guidance."
"It's of no matter," Anselm replied.
"I'll walk slower for you." Timothy paused for a moment, listening to around him, then extended his stick once more, and half turned away from Anselm.
"That is," added Timothy, "if you wish to walk with me."
Recovering his breath, Anselm patted the young man's arm in a friendly gesture. "I will happily walk with you to the Abbey gate, young friend."
"Well, I'm sure my Lord Abbot will be glad to know from you that you saw me off the premises," Timothy said with wicked humour.
Anselm did his best not to smile, and succeeded. He knew "my Lord Abbot" well.
Timothy paused and listened around him around again, remembering the route he had walked from the Abbey's main gate. He turned to his left.
"This way," Timothy said, half to himself, and started forwards along the cloister.
He did slow his pace as promised, and Anselm was grateful. He kept pace alongside the young man as they walked the length of the cloister. He watched the long slender ebony stick as it rhythmically clicked from side to side, feeling out the way ahead for the blind young man, and then he glanced up at the young man's profile. Timothy's head was up, he appeared to be listening to all that was around him. The anger had seeped from his face but every so often his brow twitched in a frown - however, whether that was in memory of his encounter with the Abbot or merely an unconscious expression of concentration as he found his way, Anselm didn't know. Perhaps a little of both.
Timothy was sensitive to Anselm's silence as they walked along the cloister, and received the feeling that he was being observed. It did not bother him; he was used to being observed because he was blind. "I expect you're wondering why my Lord Abbot and I were...raising our voices, good Brother," he said, breaking the silence between them as they walked along the cloister.
"It is not my place to ask questions," Anselm replied simply, "nor is it my wont to eavesdrop at closed doors." He hesitated, glanced at Timothy and then added: "However, if you should wish for confession, young friend-"
Timothy gave a slight laugh. "No, Brother, I thank you for the offer, but MY conscience is quite clear." He spoke with meaning.
"For the moment," he added wryly.
Timothy turned left at the entrance of the cloister, and finding the doorway, he stepped outside, once more in the Abbey grounds. He paused for a moment there and listened, soaked up all that was around him. Warm sun once more touched his face. There were stables some distance away to his left,he could hear horses tramping restlessly around in their confines, waiting to be fed. Birds flitted past on an angry chattering chase, swooping low past him. The softest of evening breezes had sprang up, and he felt it whisper through his hair.
There was a stony path here, set amongst the grass, leading from the cloister entrance. Timothy's stick found it, swept back and forth in an arc over the dry surface of it to seek the path's edge, and having located that too, he stepped forwards and continued walking, using the edge of the path as his guideline and following it along. This path led to the Abbey gate. It was an interesting path, it curved and twisted. The warmth of the sun kept changing - first he felt it strongest on his left cheek, then his right, now full in his face. He lifted his face to take in that warmth, grateful for it. Glad to be out of the chill of the Abbey's interior.
Anselm fell into step beside him once more as he set off along the path. "My young friend," said Anselm, "the day turns to evening. Consider staying the night here at St Marys."
Timothy gave a slight wry laugh as he forged determinedly on along the curving stony path, tapping his stick smartly from left to right ahead of him and following the curve of the path, keeping on track for what he knew would be the main gate somewhere ahead of him. "I hardly think that your Lord Abbot would consider giving me a bed for the night, Brother Anselm."
Anselm had to hurry once more to keep up at him, he briefly marvelled at how this young man, who could not even see the bright evening sunlight currently shining full in his eyes, found his way so assuredly. He walked full confidently, without falter in his step and he seemed to know exactly where he was heading for.
Anselm looked ahead of him to where the Abbey gate was looming, some thirty yards ahead, and then looked across at Timothy. "You could stay with one of the lay brothers this night, my friend. I can arrange it."
Timothy turned his head to aim a sincere smile in the direction of the monk who was puffing along beside him as he walked. "Brother Anselm, you are a good, kind and Holy man, and I thank you for your kindness and the offer -but I must take my leave this eve. I have a new destination to make for, and the sooner I start for it, the sooner I will get there."
"But it will be dark soon!" Anselm protested.
Timothy gave a slight amused laugh. "As if that matters to me, Brother! It's not as if I need to see where I'm going, is it?"
"Supposing you become lost?" Anselm asked.
Timothy's answer was blunt. "I won't."
"Supposing you fall into
